Simplistic
by Lolliscythe
Summary: NathanxPickles. They're from Metalocalypse. At least Pickles wasn’t alone in this. Nathan was a few feet ahead of him. Their DethCopter had crashed, leaving them stranded in the middle of absolutelyeffin'nowhere.


For Hihothedairyo, who should have gotten this weeks ago.

* * *

At least Pickles wasn't alone in this. Nathan was a few feet ahead of him. Their DethCopter had crashed, leaving them stranded in the middle of absolutely-effin'-nowhere. It was cold. The crunch of the snow beneath his shoes reminded him of fracturing peoples' noses. The drummer was already hugging himself to keep warm. He now regretted not bringing some sort of jacket. The hood would've aided in keeping that damned sun out of his eyes. At least it wasn't the Mississippi kind of sun. He could vaguely remember the sunburns. Hell, his back was like a battlefield from that shit. Hopefully, they'd find some shelter. Otherwise, they'd probably die with this weather. He reached into his pocket and consorted his DethPhone, which he promptly found to be dead. Oh well. Fate was brutal.

Nathan was painfully aware of the sun's brightness reflecting off the snow all around them as he lay on his back. He'd been banged around quite a bit, but considering he was built like a brick shithouse, it was a lot of bruises and smacked bones and nothing very serious. Still, he remained on his back, in no hurry to get up and move. The most he could hope for was that they get torn apart by wolves or maybe some really pissed off moose, because, as he grunted to Pickles when the drummer came closer: "Ofdenson's going to have a fucking field day with this."

"Yeah," Pickles agreed, "_if_'nyone ever fuckin' finds us. I can jest tell... Sumbody's shittin' down our throats right now."

"Even _if_ no one finds us, he's still going to be pissed off," responded the singer, pushing up to stand and rolling his neck, stiff from the crash. "Probably do some voodoo shit just so he can yell at us." Nathan surveyed the damage -pieces of the copter burning and smoldering against the snow- and grimaced a little. "Where are we? Where's everyone else?"

"Dood, why're you askin' me?" Pickles shrugged. "I'm 'bout as clueless as **you** are."

That was something Nathan didn't hear often, but he accepted it and started through the snow towards the rubble. He flipped over pieces with his booted feet and folded his arms tightly for warmth, breath pluming like smoke into the air as he trudged along. He pushed over a hulking piece of metal -it was hot and he flinched, shaking his hands- and even though he knew the answer would be the same, Nathan asked, "What happened?"

"I DUNNO!" Pickles shouted. He appeared surprised at himself and lamely mumbled soon after, "Serry... Low blood sugar. Haw 'bout we look fer sumwhere ta stay first? I'm freezin' mai ass off!"

"What, like a hotel?" Nathan rumbled, sighting a slight hill in the snow and making his way towards it to try and find...anything that wasn't burning 'copter or snow. "Gotta make sure it has breakfast. I'm not staying someplace that doesn't have breakfast."

"Dun think we'll find a hotel 'round here," Pickles said. He was following behind Nathan. "Our best chance is sum shack...or sumthin' like dat."

His dark hair whipped against his face in the wind that felt like knives against his skin, and Nathan glanced back towards the wreckage. Only half of the 'copter was there, with no sign of the other half, but his face was going numb and Nathan was having a harder time than usual thinking because of it. He set off walking into the snow, eyes stinging as the wind drove flakes into it. "Guess there's worse ways to go out. We just have to make sure to freeze in really brutal positions," he instructed Pickles, folding his arms tighter. "Gotta be...I don't know...tearing our eyes out or something."

"Yeah," Pickles said, "if dey aren't frozen lil' balls already!"

Nathan huffed a laugh, steaming breath stolen by the wind, and continued walking, talking to try and fend off the cold, and also the realization that he had no idea what they were going to do. "Maybe we could be making drinks with them. Ice cube eyeballs." Nathan paused. "That's a great song title."

"Yeah," Pickles said. "If we get outta here, we're writin' it. I already have tha rhythm in mai head, too."

"Do it," he insisted, booted feet slipping further into the snow as they continued. The area in front of them was wide and flat, and the wind whipped whorls of snow into the air, like a desert only fucking freezing. Nathan frowned and suddenly disappeared in a burst of snow as his boots made contact with a frozen surface beneath him.

Pickles guffawed as he watched Nathan slip and fall back onto his ass. He tentively stepped forward and practically did the same thing. He clutched at his sides, his ass freezing. "Fuck!" he hissed. "Wat is dis? A frozen lake?!"

"Damn it!" snarled Nathan, struggling to pull himself back up on the snow and not fall, his boots easily sinking past the thin layer of snow that covered the ice. He wobbled unsteadily, lips parting over his clenched teeth as he growled, "Stupid lake. Stupid ice!" Arms out to keep him steady, he squinted through the driving snow and made out a dark, solid shape in the distance. "What's that? A polar bear? Because--" Nathan's words cut short as he slipped slightly, another brilliant commentary lost to the world as he continued moving slowly forwards.

"Cuz...?" Pickles's legs trembled as he tried to pull himself to his feet. "Shit. Shit." He almost slipped again as he tried to steady himself, resembling a person walking on a tightrope. "Dood, it _kinda_ looks like..."

"...Some shack!" He moved a little faster, ready to beat the hell out of anyone who was inside if they didn't let them have that place. Already Nathan felt warmer just looking at it; that place would have to do, even if it didn't have breakfast. He supposed it probably wouldn't.

"**FWA!**" Pickles had started walking forward too quickly and fell onto his face. His head popped out of the snow. He growled and stumbled back to his feet. He did this several more times as he tried to run to the shack.

Nathan didn't stop to help, sliding for most of the distance and doing that weird back-and-forth wobbling thing that people with really bad balance do when they couldn't stand up right. He caught himself on the side of the small hut, fingers grasping the worn wood, and he kicked the snow out of the way before tugging the door open.

Pickles had thought he'd gotten the hang of it. He began sliding, occasionally stumbling, but soon came to the realization that he was careening straight toward the shack. "**FUCK!**" he shouted. A _thump_ was soon heard afterwards. Pickles groaned as he scooted along the side of the hut and over to the door. He had an imprint against his forehead.

Though the rush of adrenaline might be nice to warm him up, the small hut was unoccupied. A pile of filthy blankets, a few stacked stools, an icebox, and some rusty hardware were the only things in the shack, and Nathan glanced from the motley items to his careening band mate and back again before squeezing through the door. It was spacious enough for a few people inside -each side maybe eight feet- but of course Nathan looked enormous in it, like a horse stuffed inside a rabbit hutch. He grunted, disapproving.

"I hope dere's sum fuckin' beer in dis joint...," Pickles mumbled. He was nursing a slowly-growing bruise against his forehead as he walked inside and closed the door behind him. He frowned and sighed. He peered through the snow-fogged window after rubbing on it and rolled his eyes. "Well, a shack is better dan bein' out in a fuckin' blizzard, right?" he asked, turning back to Nathan.

"I dunno," Nathan muttered, the words crammed together into one long syllable. He glanced at Pickles's smacked forehead and snorted a laugh before grabbing one of the stools and sitting down. Cupping his hands over his mouth, he breathed into them and his low voice resonated in the small wood hut. "What's **that**?" he asked and nodded at the radio. "Check and see if it works."

Pickles nodded and walked over to the radio. Fuckin' thing was colder than the ice lake. He flipped the radio on, turned up the volume, and began adjusting the dial. He abruptly found an 80's station and ogled at the radio, a wide grin twisting at his lips. 80's hair-metal resounded through the room. "Dis place is **GOLD**," he mumbled.

Nathan flinched at the shrill squeals of vocals and guitars that defined such brutally...not brutal music, and he let out a quiet growl. _Great. _He was going to freeze to death listening to eunuchs in spandex. "Does it go out? I mean, like one of those trucker radios?" The music wasn't helping his increasing headache, though Pickles's enthusiasm was somewhat bolstering; if Pickles wasn't worried, Nathan figured he shouldn't be worried so much, either.

"Umm... Dood, I dunno," Pickles said. "I'd rather jest relax ta sum good shit."

"That's **not** good shit," Nathan informed him, pointing an accusatory finger at the radio. "Shit, yeah, but not **good**." He settled, though, rather than fighting it more, and leaned back against the wall of the shack. It was much warmer out of the wind, and gradually he unfolded his arms, slouching and frowning at the ice. "We're gonna have to eat," he grumbled. "Maybe we can find a seal and take it out, you know. Like that 'Faces of Death' video that Murderface is always watching."

Pickles rolled his eyes and sighed. "Yeah," he said. "Hey, dood, d'ya have a light?" He'd settled at the opposite end of the shack and was feeling his pockets. He'd pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

"I'd do it," Nathan said idly before fumbling in his pocket. He pulled out a few candy wrappers -stolen from Toki's bowl when he wasn't looking- and tossed them aside before pitching a cheap plastic lighter to Pickles. "Light me one, too," the singer said. He didn't usually smoke -drinking or sex typically had him sucking ash- but he figured if he was going to die out here anyway, he might as well enjoy it. Looking upwards at the high, sloped roof, he wondered, "Think we can start a fire without torching the whole place?"

Pickles frowned, glancing up at the ceiling. "Nah," he said. "Wouldn't chance it." He placed a cigarette to his lips and lit it. He took a deep drag and sighed, "Thanks, Nat'an." He pulled another cigarette from the rumpled packet and tossed it back to Nathan along with the lighter.

The belting strains of 'Cherry Pie' filled the small shack and Nathan snarled, lighting the cigarette and taking a long drag, then blowing the smoke towards the ceiling. He stared at the radio from the corner of his eyes and pushed his hair back out of his face. "You really like this crap? It's so...not _metal_."

"It brings me back!" Pickles said. "I dun care if it ain't metal."

"What the fuck, Pickles," snorted Nathan, but he didn't press the point. Clumsy fingers flicked the cigarette to ash it onto the ice and he stuck the smoke back in his mouth before snaring up two of the matted, dirty blankets, and tossing one at the drummer. He put the other over his arms, and took a slow drag. "Do you miss it? That whole...thing? I, uh...wasn't there. Yeah. Only seen it on TV."

"'Tha thing'... Yeah... Dat really helps me," Pickles said. He blew into Nathan's face.

Nathan's lips curled back over his teeth in a slight snarl as smoke was blown at him, but he simply took another drag, trying harder to express himself, which didn't show through clarity, but rather just the force of his voice, like saying the words harder would make them more correct. "The 80's," he grunted. "The whole...hair...spandex...got-my-balls-caught-in-a-blender screaming thing. **That**," he tried to think of any other word but 'music' since it definitely wasn't that. "That whole scene."

"Yeah, sumtimes I miss it," Pickles said. "It's not metal, bet who cares? I had fun!" _Yeah... I__ can't describe fer shit._

"Seems kinda," he paused, "gay." Nathan was truly a master of language, able to unintentionally insult meaningful things without even noticing, and with all the eloquence of a chainsaw stuffed into a blender. He tried to clarify. "I mean, the hair and the make-up and the pants. How do you even wear pants that tight?" he boggled, taking a hard drag off the smoke and squinting at Pickles from across the small shack.

"Tha 80's were fuckin' weird, lookin' beck at 'em...," Pickles mumbled. "Ya did weird shit 'n didn't really think about it 'cuz...you jest did it... 'N I dunno haw I fit into dose damn things..."

Nathan had been hoping for an answer about the pants -he really, _really_ wanted to know how that was possible without having to cut things off- but he didn't press the point, instead arching a brow. "What kind of weird shit?" He stubbed the cigarette butt out against the ice and exhaled the last smoke from his lungs, waiting until it was just his breath again, and then pulling the blanket tight around him. The wind had gotten even stronger as the light from outside began to dim, and the shack creaked ominously around them.

Pickles glanced around the shack, a paranoid expression on his face. _Eh... It__ had better jest be settling. _He scooped up the neglected blanket and drew it around him like a cape. Snug as a fuckin' squashed cockroach. "Y'know, _weeerd_ shit," he repeated. "It's kinda self-explanatory."

Nathan informed him, "You tell boring stories" and -his growing boredom increasingly evident- he dragged the plastic ice chest closer with the toe of his boot, careful not to dislodge the blanket from over him. It had some kind of animal hair on it -a dog, maybe- and he sneezed, cracking open the frozen lid and peering inside. "Augh!" he shouted, eyes wide, and he produced half a bottle of vodka and three quarters a bottle of whiskey, their labels peeling but their contents sloshing in all their liquored glory.

**"GIMME THA FUCKIN BOOZE!"** Pickles howled. He dived for the plastic ice chest and eyed the vodka like the yardwolves when they were chasing after a fan.

Nathan, both bottles firmly in hand, stretched back away from the diving drummer and stuck out a booted foot to keep him at leg's length. "I want a good story," he snarled, grinning wolfishly. "I found it. It's mine. You gotta earn yours." Nathan could be a total asshole sometimes, and from the feral gleam in his eyes, he loved every fuckin' minute of it.

Pickles growled, "Fine. 'Nything fer sum booze." He crossed his arms and grumbled as he sat back down. "Okey. You wan' a weird story? Fine... Freggin' douchebag."

Cracking open the vodka, Nathan took a long pull and growled pleasurably as the heat coursed down his throat and gathered in his stomach. He settled back against the wall, keeping the bottles close and watched Pickles. "Make it a good one."

Pickles watched Nathan jealously, his green eyes narrowing in anger. "Okey, so I've establ'shed dat it's tha 80's... We'd jest finished our show 'n were beck in our hotel room. I'd fergatten dat I'd used up all my stash tha night bafore. So, here I am wit' nothin' ta do. Well, I start searchin' mai room fer **ANYTHING** ta do. Couldn't find nothing, so I slipped off ta Tony's room ta do sum investigatin'. Didn't find none of his stash, but I found sum sciss'rs. I kept on searchin' before realizin' dat tha sciss'rs were all I had. So, I started cuttin' things. I grew so fascinated dat I started 'designin' mai own clothing...dat I was still wearin'..."

Nathan was listening, yes, but he took another quick pull of vodka, a silent way of getting Pickles to continue, because if he didn't, Nathan was going to drink all of it. "Did you cut yourself?" he asked, always a little bloodthirsty, his voice rough from the icy liquor.

"Pretty much, yeah," Pickles said. "It cut right drough ta mai skin. Since I dunno shit about cuttin', I fucked up mai clothing. It didn't matter, 'nyway. I spent...Gahd knows how long cuttin' mai pants. At sum point, mai pants were so shredded dat dey wouldn't stay on. About dis time, Tony had returned ta his room.

"I could tell dat he was high, and I was jealous. A'course, I kinda panicked at first, mumblin' excuses as ta why I was dere, but he didn't seem ta care. Didn't seem ta know I was dere until he asked where his sciss'rs were. I can recall a bit of our conversation...

"I'd sed sumethin' like, 'Eh, Tony, could I barrow summa yer boxers?'

"'N he sed, 'Sure... Why?'

"I'd also realized about dat time dat I'd cut drough ta mai boxers 'n dat meebe, j**est** meebe, Tony wasn't as drunk as I that...

"Fuckin' stung," Pickles concluded. "'N, yeah. You can guess wat else happened. Got a new wardrobe... Now can I have tha fuckin' vadka?!"

Nathan squinted at Pickles, appraising him at length. He took another small drink and muttered, "So you got bored and cut up your clothes?" The singer had a marvelous way of simplifying everything and he thought just as hard about the liquor-worthiness of this simplification as he did the story itself. Relenting, though, because it was too fucking cold to deprive a man of alcohol more than he already had, he slid the vodka bottle across the ice and instead nursed the half-handle of whiskey.

"**THANK** you, 'n yes, I did," Pickles said. He bent down and picked up the bottle. He promptly began guzzling it down.

"Might want to make it last," Nathan warned him. "Heard they keep booze around to warm people up when they're about to freeze to death. Y'know, like those big dogs with the little barrels around their necks? In the mountains?" He slid his hand through his hair, and took another drink, the amber liquid sloshing against the glass. "Think anyone's coming to find us?"

Pickles choked and grumbled as he set down the bottle. "Dogs...wit' tha bottles...," he grumbled, his voice scratchy from the liquor. "Y'know... If 'nyone went beck ta investigate tha DethCopter... Dey may think dat we're dead."

"Yeah, the dogs with the bottles," Nathan growled, taking another quick pull and taking out his lighter to motion for the cigarettes. He considered Pickles's words for a moment and watched him. "But there's no bodies. I mean, our bodies are here. Because we're not dead. So they wouldn't know, right?"

"Yeah...," Pickles said. "Meebe... Bet dey may not know where we might've gone, y'know?"

"So what should we do?" He lit another cigarette from Pickles's pack and glanced out the dirty window, able to make out the sun fading rapidly over the horizon and little more. The radio crackled but continued to play, running off its battery reserves and piping Aerosmith (Nathan looked pained) into the ramshackle fishing hut.

"I dunno," Pickles said. "Wait until tha storm slows down a little, I guess. Dere'd be no use goin' out dere now."

"Wonder where the fuck we are anyway," he muttered through a mouthful of smoke, letting it trickle upwards and chasing it with another swallow of whiskey. He muffled a cough with his arm and hitched the blanket up again, slouching such that his hair sloughed into his face, shadowing it as his brows drew in. "Think we're gonna die out here?"

"Prably."

The singer didn't seem particularly affected by this, grunting low in response to Pickles's assessment of their situation. After a few wind-howl filled minutes of silence, he asked, "Think everyone else is dead?"

"Prably, prably not. Ya never know," Pickles said.

"Brutal," Nathan responded. "I read a book once," he began, then stopped. "No, _wait._ I saw a _movie_ once that was, uh, based on a _book._ About these guys who crashed in their plane and no one could find them and they had to eat each other."

"Metal," Pickles said. "Wait... You gonna eat me if it comes ta dat?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Well yeah, I guess," shrugged Nathan, watching the ceiling as he breathed smoke towards it. "Probably taste like...whiskey and pot, but if I didn't have any other choice, I guess I would. Why? You think you could take me?" He arched a brow in return.

_Why did I jest think... Gahd._ "Yer like dis behemoth," Pickles said, keeping the eyebrow raised. "I wouldn't stand a chance, dood."

"Yeah," agreed Nathan with a shrug. "I mean, that's what I'm saying. You're gonna go before I do, so if I've gotta eat, I mean... That's awesome." He settled under the blanket, taking another swig of whiskey. "That'd make a great album cover, all of us eating one of us. Like that picture with Jesus at the table making everyone eat him and drink his blood." Nathan paused. "I could be Jesus."

"Like Mayhem, dood," Pickles said. "Wat a way ta go."

"Yeah, yeah, and I can send pieces of you to other bands, too," the singer murmured around the mouth of the bottle, a flicker of excitement passing over his normally stoic features. "God, that's a great album." As though to taunt him, Van Halen shrilled its way onto the radio, and Nathan took a very long drink.

Pickles snorted at Nathan's expression and reached over to turn up the radio. "Gahd... Wonder how long we're gonna have ta wait...if you dun go all cannibal on me," he said.

Nathan considered this prospect and shrugged. "I mean, I'm hungry, but I'm not that hungry yet. Could probably find a seal or something to club first, anyway." He glowered from behind his hair as Pickles turned the radio up more, and then stood to rummage through the pile of hardware, his shoulders hunched in the cramped quarters. He kept the blanket around his shoulders and the bottle in his hand as he kicked aside several tools, and then crouched over a toolbox. "Huh."

"Eh? Whatcha find?" Pickles asked. He turned down the radio a little, much to Nathan's relief, and glanced over at the hunching man. "A knife? Sumthin' good? More booze?" _Oh, **PLEASE**__ let it be more booze..._

"More booze in the icebox," Nathan admitted. "Wanted to keep it for myself but since we're going to die anyway, it probably doesn't matter." Probably. "But you gotta share your smokes." Crouched over the box, Nathan opened it and tossed a few things aside: a fishing knife, some twine, a couple screwdrivers... aha! He stood and shook something violently before it clicked, and a flashlight, which was flickering, but mostly functional, lit up the dark room. He pointed it at Pickles and then set it in the window pointing out. "Maybe someone'll see it before I have to eat you," he surmised, pulling the blanket tighter.

"Hopefully...," Pickles said. "'N...Gahd. Shine dat in mai eyes again."

Nathan pointed the flashlight at him again. "What, like this?"

"Dood, like... Yeah, like dat," Pickles said. His eyes crossed and he smiled.

Turning it around, he shined the flashlight at himself and squinted, rumbling an approving noise before setting it back in the window and blinking wide-eyed at the blackness, much darker now that his night-vision had been shot. "So what're we gonna do for, uh...a bunch of hours until someone comes and finds us? Or we die?" He kicked the icebox into the middle of the room, stashed heavy with full and partial bottles of liquor.

"Listen ta music...'n stuff," Pickles said. "I dunno. I ain't good when I have free time... It's still a fuckin' blizzard out dere. Wanna smoke?"

"I'm bored," Nathan rumbled. This was never a good thing, often leading to things and people being broken in the singer's search for stimulation. His interest piqued however, and his eyebrow raised. "What do you have? Just cigarettes?"

"Yeah, jest cigarettes," Pickles said. "Wat? You have any smart ideas?"

Nathan nodded despite there not being more interesting things to smoke and gladly accepted another cigarette, lighting it before tossing the lighter to Pickles. "I don't get paid to entertain myself," Nathan mumbled, finishing off the first bottle of whiskey and going for the next. "But I guess, y'know...the least we can do is friggin'...get wasted before we die." He held the blanket closed with one hand, and the bottle and cigarette in the other, shivering slightly.

"Hnn. Dat's tha spirit" Pickles chirped. "I wish I'd brought tha good shit... Seriously. I do." He lit another cigarette, blew toward the ceiling and tossed the lighter back to Nathan.

"Is there anything you haven't done?" asked Nathan, missing the lighter and watching as it slid across the ice and bump against the wall. He didn't move to pick it up, instead taking a drag of his own cigarette and turning the smoke over in his mouth before exhaling it in a curt puff, brows furrowed.

"Eh... I dunno," Pickles said. He shrugged and gazed up at the ceiling. 'Sweet Child of Mine' came on and he reached over to turn up the radio a bit. "Gahd... I seriously... I dunno."

"Augh, god, it's like...like skinning a cat," Nathan grimaced. He was sorely tempted to smash the fucking radio and just sit in silence, but he restrained, expression darkening gloomily, Rose's wail sounding uncannily like the wind outside, which suddenly seemed a better option to Nathan. "I can't believe I'm going to die listening to this shit." He paused and then snorted, cruelly amused. "I can't believe _you're _going to die knowing you made shit LIKE **this**."

"Oh, **SHADDAP**, Nat'an," Pickles said. He rolled his eyes. The good-tempered man's nerves were starting to become frayed. "I dun wanna hear your shit, okay? Suck it up."

"It's funny!" insisted Nathan, the Man Who Never Knew When to Quit. "It's fucking hilarious, actually. I mean, that last album was awesome, but," he huffed a laugh, meaning well despite being entirely irritating, and taking a long drink. "But come on." He jerked a nod at the radio. "That guy with the hat? I mean, and the hair? What the fuck." Nathan grinned despite himself, liquor and the nihilistic acceptance of his own impending icy doom taking their toll.

"I try not ta think 'bout tha weird shit tha bands wore 'nymore...," Pickles said.

"What happened to your hair, anyway?" Nathan asked. He'd always wondered but never had a proper venue to ask until right now, when it didn't matter because they were going to die anyway. Really, nothing did, and Nathan slid a second bottle to Pickles before taking another drink.

"Fell out cuz of tha shit I snorted 'n drank," Pickles said. "That dat would've been obvious."

Nathan blinked. He knew Pickles had done a **lot** of drugs, but... "God, that's brutal. I didn't even know that could happen." He stubbed out another cigarette and slid down onto the ground, awkwardly spreading the remaining blankets over the ice to lay on. "My back hurts," he grunted, shifting uncomfortably on the hard surface. "Was asleep when we crashed and fuckin'...fell off the bed." He paused, prodding at a bruise just beneath the bottom of his shirt. "Think I might've hit the ceiling."

Pickles snorted. "Brutal," he mumbled. "Dood, I that you'd know, at least." He leaned against the corner of their small fucking little hut and stretched out his legs. The song was finally ending, at least. He filtered the cigarette between two fingers while taking a long drink of his vodka bottle. "Man... Think dat tha others are dead by now?"

Watching Pickles from his position on the ice, Nathan considered the question, still feeling out the bruises he'd accumulated from the crash. "I just want to know which of **them** are going to get eaten," he responded, shifting with a flicker of pain as he pressed his hand into his back. "Murderface'd eat Skwisgaar first. Bet Toki puts up a good fight, though."

"Hell yeah, wit dose muscles," Pickles said. "Tha guy's fuckin' ripped... I wonder if dere's a cracked-up Toki jest wanderin' around out dere now... He'd have skinned Murderface...and have Skwisgaar's belt as a necklace... Maybe have dose bone necklaces dose old cannibal tribes made outta dere victims."

Nathan grunted approval at the mental image. "I mean, if any of us is going to snap and just...fuckin' kill everyone and run off into the woods, it's going to be him. All that Viking blood, I think. Watch him just go crazy, y'know...covered in blood and wolf fur when they find him." He propped himself up and took a drink. "Tryin' to think if there's anything I should have done before I die." Another drink, mumbling, "Maybe there's some...I dunno...snow-woman around that I can screw before I freeze. That or some food, then I won't care any more."

"Snow-woman... Meebe a nice blonde...," Pickles pondered.

"Yeah, yeah," Nathan murmured. "Real tall, blonde Viking girl. I like girls with fight," said the singer, smirking as he drank again, well on his way to drunk. "That'd be perfect. Liquor, sex, death. In that order." Clearly.

"Viking chicks... Mmhmm..." Pickles nodded, staring up at the ceiling in contemplation. "Gahd..."

"What?" Nathan asked, squinting at the drummer through his hair. A few strains of music began to filter through the radio -'is this love... that I'm feeling'- and Nathan's eyes went wide. He stood suddenly, raising the empty bottle over his head, and he snarled as he turned towards the radio, "No Whitesnake **EVER!**"

**"THA FUCK!"**

Nathan snapped, swinging the bottle down hard on the hapless radio. It bounced but remained intact, built for the most horrendous weather conditions. The glass shattered and fell onto the ice, and Nathan stared hatefully at the radio, dropping the half of the bottle in his hand and grabbing the machine, ready to rip it apart from the inside out. "I'm not going to die," he growled, "listening to **WHITESNAKE**, Pickles."

**"GAHD! I WANT SUM FUCKIN' MUSIC, DOOD! TERN THA STATION!"**

If the radio had a neck, Nathan would be throttling it, but his blind surge of rage was broken up by Pickles's words. He blinked at the drummer and then the radio and mumbled, "Oh yeah" before clicking through the stations.

"Idiot...," Pickles muttered. He sighed as Nathan found a **real** metal station and slid down the wall. "Hnn... Hmm... I think I know dis..."

"Where the... Where the fuck **are** we?" Nathan grunted, lingering on the metal station but wondering where they were that they could pick up radio like that. He'd been to enough shitholes around the world to know that most radio sucked, and most places didn't even have radio at all, so they had to be somewhere near a place that...uh...didn't suck. Nathan frowned thoughtfully and set the radio aside, huddling into the blanket again. "I'm cold," was all he said, though, grabbing Pickles's bottle of liquor to drink the boredom away.

"Wrath, hate, pain, n death... Yeah. Dat's Metalwrath, alright," Pickles mumbled. "I have no fuckin' clue where we are..." He huggled his blanket close, getting lost in the song.

Familiar music was at least... familiar to him, and Nathan handed the bottle back off to Pickles, somewhat calmed (or very calmed, considering his rage against power ballads) from before. He sat back down on the makeshift bed of blankets, and dropped onto his side. It was miserably cold, but he ignored it the best he could. "S'a great band," he commented, voice muffled by the blanket drawn up against his face. Nathan continued in a low, liquor-and-cold thickened voice, "If I ever see Toki again, I better find out that he's killed like, a hundred people and wolves and bears and shit out there."

"Hell yeah," Pickles mumbled. "Viking metal...tha best."

"Brutal," he agreed, only then scooting over to allow enough room for Pickles to lay down. It was a tight space, but it would have to do, and he shivered into the dog-hair covered blanket pulled up over him. "You know I never got to destroy anything famous? I mean really famous. Murderface has that museum under his belt -the one in P- uh... Par...? France. The one in France. I mean, he didn't do it," Nathan mumbled, "but someone did it for him, so it's kinda like he did." He paused, exhaling a plume of breath into the air. "I've always wanted to destroy the Great Wall. All of it. At once. I want those fuckers in space to see it go down, you know?"

"Yeah...," Pickles said. He took another drag and breathed out through his nose. "I can't stap imaginin' Toki killin' shit. Serry. I keep on hazin'."

"He's fucking crazy," Nathan nodded, a solid lump on the shack floor, motionless but for the occasional cold shudder. "Maybe he'll find us and then I won't have to, y'know eat you. Because we'll already be dead."

"Dat's a nice way of thinkin' bout it...," Pickles muttered. He rolled his eyes.

"It could be worse," he grumbled, glancing over his shoulder at the increasingly testy Midwesterner. Nathan felt a sudden flush of wanting to get into a fight with him, but resisted for now.

"Really? Haw?" Pickles filtered his cigarette and glanced over at Nathan. "We're in a freggin' **bathroom**, fer christsakes. No. A bathroom **stall** would be bigger dan dis fuckin' shithole..."

Nathan had settled, ready to go to sleep for lack of better things to do, and an increasing buzz from the relentless alcohol consumption since he had discovered the stash... and Pickles wanted to start with him? Nathan's stare narrowed slightly. "I don't know. We could have not found this place at all? How would that be, Pickles?" he growled, teeth clenched a little.

"Bullshit...," Pickles mumbled. "Y'know, if a cannibal stumbles into here, I'm ready fer it. I think I can finally go ta sleep, damn it." He frowned up at the ceiling, his eyelids fluttering. His tone was soft, barely audible.

"Then lay down and shut up," growled the singer, tone easing just a little as he pulled back the blanket for Pickles. "We've got some screwdrivers and bottles and shit. If anything tries to kill us, we'll at least get a few good shots in." Nathan's reassurances were never particularly reassuring.

"Hnn," Pickles mumbled. "I have a bottle I could use... Jest lemme sleep." He rolled over on his side, curled up into a little ball.

"Hope they find us," Nathan muttered. "Could use some...coffee and a sandwich right now." He slid back a little against Pickles, unconsciously seeking out the warmth that another body presented. The radio hissed and crackled, only eerie strains of music breaking through as the storm rolled in even harder.

"Kool-aid with vadka," Pickles mumbled, moving into the heat. "Chocolate chip cookies...and...BBQ potato chips."

"_Augh_, barbecue," Nathan groaned in sympathy, his stomach rumbling loudly. "Ribs. A whole plate of ribs covered in sauce. With French fries on the side." His back was pressed against Pickles's, and the contact provided a strange, warm comfort to him.

"Like greasy, meaty French fries...," Pickles mumbled, drooling. "'N sum chocolate cake. I'd _kill_ for some chocolate."

"God," he mumbled, turning his face down into the blanket in hungry, self-inflicted agony. "Chocolate fudge cake with ice cream on top. Or brownies." His stomach rumbled again and he sighed heavily. "Jean-Pierre better have lived, because I want some fucking food when we get back."

"**If** we get beck...," Pickles mumbled.

Nathan rolled over, facing Pickles but not drawing close, though he felt far colder for it. "_If_," he agreed, tucking his arm beneath his head. "First thing I'm going to do is take a hot bath." Somehow, talking about the possibilities of their survival and return to...anywhere but that shack...made Nathan feel slightly better.

"Yeah... A fuckin' shower sounds good right about now," Pickles agreed. "_Gahd._"

"Gonna go back out tomorrow," Nathan murmured, deciding to ignore the interest of decency in favor of trying to steal Pickles's warmth. He scooted a little closer towards him, closing his eyes. "See what I can find. Gotta be something left, y'know? Food or cigarettes or booze."

"Chocolate cake, man, chocolate cake," Pickles mumbled, unconsciously moving back toward Nathan's body heat. He was already drifting off and didn't care. He couldn't hear the radio's static anymore. Mainly just his breathing, along with Nathan's.

"Maybe," grunted Nathan. "I mean...I'll look for it." Sleep-thick, he rested his forehead against Pickle's head, and draped an arm over him. Warmth was warmth, and if it made the difference between freezing to death or not, Nathan didn't care.

"Ya'd better, douchebag... Warm..."

"Chocolate cake... Crash site...," he confirmed sleepily, keeping Pickles close for warmth that seemed to take away the chill from the blanket-covered ice beneath them.

"'N tha ice-eyeball song, dun ferget...," Pickles added.

"Right," Nathan assented, shivering against Pickles. He was practically spooning the slight Irish drummer, but he didn't seem to give a shit, despite his earlier goading of Pickles about his horrid spandex-wearing past. "Maybe call it... 'Vitreous Vodka.'" Nathan had a surprisingly adept vocabulary and way with words when it came to songs, even though he shrugged and pressed closer to Pickles. "I dunno. Sounds too much like a, uh...y'know, a Carcass song at that point."

"Carcass is sum good shit, ya gotta admit," Pickles said. He shrugged his shoulders. "Watever works, y'know?"

"Oh yeah, they're awesome," agreed the singer. "I just don't want to be another one of those fuckin' bands that's always ripping them off. Y'know, lyrics right out of a medical book and all that shit."

Pickles snickered. "Like we'd ever do dat kinda shit, 'nyway, Nat'an," he said. "Yeah, you'd fuckin' own 'em."

"Own 'em?" Nathan's brows furrowed, eyes still shut. "Me, uh... Medical books? No, Murderface has all of those. Never puts 'em back in the library either."

"Yeah, exactly," Pickles said. "You 'n medical books. Jest doesn't work out."

"You saying I'm stupid?" A brow arched. "I was always really, really good at shit like that."

"Yer jest...a lil' slow at sum things," Pickles said. "Yeah, bet you were." His tone was slightly taunting.

Nathan frowned, eyes opening slightly to glare at the back of the drummer's head. "No, I was," he insisted emphatically. "I mean, I was horrible at everything else, but I did really good in biology. Cutting frogs and pig fetuses up? That was awesome."

Pickles chuckled. "Yeah, could see you doin' dat," he said.

"So shut up, then," he grunted, settling down again after the slight spike in emotions. "Anyway, I'm not dumber than most average jerk-offs," said the singer in a low mumble.

"Yeah, right...," Pickles said. "I honestly dun care, okey?"

"Well _I_ do," he growled low. "It's, y'know... Not nice to tell people they're stupid."

"Whoever sed I was nice, dood?" Pickles chuckled and smiled.

Nathan snorted through his nose, a derisive, rather horsy sound, and, still sleeping close, took a deep breath to settle in to sleep.

"Hey, Nat'an... Can I ask you a question?"

"I mean, you just did, but... okay." His eyes were still closed, shivers subsiding gradually.

"Eh... Shit...," Pickles mumbled. "I fergot wat I was gonna ask... Hnn."

"You talk a lot," grumbled the singer. "You need more liquor or something? Got too much energy..."

"Ah, yeah, think I do," Pickles said. "I dun wanna move, dough."

Nathan drew in a deep breath, and let out the longest, most put-upon sigh since they got the blues. He drew away from Pickles, sitting up slow and grabbing for the icebox. He rummaged for the last bottle of liquor, and handed it off to the drummer, tousled hair hanging into his eyes. "Spoiled," he murmured, rubbing his eyes sleepily.

"Pfft." Pickles snickered and opened the bottle. "If I die, I'm gonna die drunk...'n warm."

"Warm?" Nathan snorted, rubbing his arms to try and heat the ice out of them. "How're you going to do that? I mean, I guess, y'know, we could burn some things," he brainstormed, which for Nathan was really more of a brain-partly-cloudy. "Think we'd end up burning the whole place down, though."

"No, ya douche," Pickles said. "Beck on tha floor... Yer warm, damn it."

Nathan cocked an eyebrow at the order, but gave in without saying anything. His brow remained raised as he laid back down on his back and watched Pickles curiously. "What, like this?" Leave it to Nathan to complicate lying down.

"Ya idiot...," Pickles mumbled. He scooted near Nathan and waved the bottle at him. His vision was swimming. It wasn't from the alcohol... He had an insanely high tolerance. He polished off the bottle, not caring for Nathan's mention earlier. He just wanted to...be warm. _Yeah._**Warm.** There was nothin' gay about spooning against a guy in the middle of a fuckin' ice storm...snowstorm...whatever they were in. He couldn't think.

Nathan snarled softly -something about not being an idiot- but didn't press the point. He tensed a little as Pickles pressed against him, but after a few minutes of awkward silence, he grunted. "This is warmer." Nathan knew that the drummer was one of the most sensible among them, so he didn't think too much about whether it was okay or gay or just really warm, though he knew at least that the latter was true. He pulled his arm from beneath his head and -fumbling awkwardly a little- tucked it underneath Pickles to pull him closer.

"I guess...," Pickles said. Gahd. No matter what, even under this damn blanket, he was still cold. Of course, he could consider what he and Nat'an had been talking about earlier...about there not even **being** a shack... Wait. **He'd** said that first. Yeah. He could faintly recognize the crackling on the radio to be a Carcass song. How fuckin' ironic.

Consider the sheer size of Nathan, he was really cold, but not nearly as much as the smaller man, and he could feel Pickles practically vibrating from the shivers. "Good song," he rumbled, keeping his arm around Pickles's shoulders as he rolled to his side, trying at least marginally to warm the drummer by awkwardly pressing closer against him, front-to-front.

"Yeah...," Pickles said. _Gahd, he's__ warm._ He felt no shame in blatantly pressing up against Nathan. Okay, maybe he felt a little, but it didn't cross his mind. He could vaguely hear the drums and Amot's scream. It was a metal sort of fibre-glass heaven they were in; all white, somewhat shit, yet at the same time..._bland_. Just _there._ He wasn't aware of his own pulse, although he could feel Nathan's pulse over the back of his eyelids.

Nathan, on the other hand, felt a sudden surge of awareness, his frost-numbed nerves flickering back to life like strings of firecrackers as the smaller man's body drew up against his. It was warmer than he expected, even laying on thin blankets over a frozen lake, and warmer in a different way. Though still aware that any search for increasing warmth would have to be answered for if they did survive, Nathan was also aware that explanations could also take the form of physical violence if necessary to shut up whoever was asking, and with that in mind, he pressed the bridge of his nose against Pickles's forehead, his breath warm as he nuzzled just once.

"Hnn..." Pickles's eyes were closed tightly and his breath washed over Nathan. He didn't care _how_ close he got to the other man. The alcohol was settling nicely in his stomach, and the vodka also kept him somewhat warm, but not enough. It wasn't snuggling exactly, but he somewhat snuggled against the other man.

Mission Don't Let the Drummer Freeze was going into effect, Nathan decided, if only because the idea of having to find another drummer later would be too much work. His hand loosened from Pickles's shoulder and he began to rub his back with one broad hand, trying to work warmth into him, fingers tracing long lines up and down his spine. "Is, uh," muttered Nathan. "Is this okay?"

"Yeah... It's fine...," Pickles mumbled. "Feels good." He didn't consider any connotations, just accepted the heat the other man gave.

Nathan grunted acknowledgement and kept his forehead tucked against Pickles's, eyes shut as he rubbed the drummer's back, keeping his thin frame tucked close. Deciding it was probably better to stop asking about everything, Nathan slid his hand just beneath the hem of Pickles's shirt, fingers grazing his skin. His hand was cold at first, **really** cold, but after a few seconds, began to warm.

"Fuck...," Pickles mumbled. _Guy's__ gropin me now...ta Carcass._

"Sorry," Nathan mumbled, figuring the curse was due to the cold. He took his hand back and put it back on Pickles's shoulder. Nathan had been just trying to warm him, figuring skin on skin was warmer than not, but he didn't want to make anything weird and lose the little warmth they had caught between them. Still... Nathan was totally the kind of guy who would feel someone up to a band with songs like "Embryonic Necropsy and Devourment."

"No, idiot, I didn't mean stap," Pickles said.

"Oh," he responded, blinking. "_Right._" Nathan slid his hand back underneath Pickles's shirt, rubbing his back again, his hand firm, and almost hot in contrast with the ambient cold around them. He took the verbal abuse in stride. He probably was an idiot, anyway.

_Wat's wrong wit me? Damn...,_ Pickles thought. _Oh__ well. It's nat like it really matters, 'nyway. It's Nat'an, not sum...person I dunno_. Apparently, that was one of the problems. He didn't speak, just pressed his body to the hand, keeping his eyes closed, listening to Nat'an's heartbeat.

Nathan made a small, rumbling noise as Pickles leaned against his chest and listened to his heart, and continued to rub his back, alternating between soft traces of his fingers and firm rubs with his palm. He tried to think if he had ever been this close -uh, like this- to another guy before, and nothing came to mind. Everyone had fucked around like that at some point, but that didn't feel like this, and he absently nuzzled against Pickles's forehead again. They were going to freeze anyway. Who cared?

_Guy's like a big panther..., _Pickles thought. Like a big black panther. He smiled and mumbled incoherently_. It'd__ be gay if sumone actually found us like dis... Oh well. At least we have sum metal playin'._

"Your breath smells like booze," Nathan rumbled, lips unconsciously brushing against Pickles's forehead as he spoke. Nevermind that his own probably smelled the same way.

"You smell like dat vadka," Pickles said. _Not__ dat I mind. Watever._

"So? I mean, that's not so bad, right? I'd have figured you like that smell." He snorted an amused note. "You're around it enough, I mean." His hand slid up between Pickles's shoulder blades, fingers running over the ridges of his spine.

"Yeah, I like tha smell, douchebag," Pickles said. He was starting to grow rigid as his body warmed to Nathan's, sticking similar to super-heated plastic.

Nathan arched a brow, hand faltering slightly in its rubbing before resuming as he felt unexpected pressure against his hip. That was... Uh... Nathan wasn't sure, really, what to make of this. In any other situation, well... He wouldn't **be** in this position, but even if he were, this would merit a hard punch in the face. But this wasn't any other situation, and Nathan's brows furrowed thoughtfully as he took a breath, and pressed a testing, this-may-or-may-not-get-me-hit kiss to the drummer's forehead. This was completely gay, Nathan thought, but he had to admit that he wasn't entirely opposed to it considering the circumstances of their encroaching death.

Pickles opened his eyes and raised an eyebrow up at Nathan. _Oh, fuck. Wat__ tha hell... Dis is so embarrassing!_ "Wat tha hell, Nat'an," he mumbled.

"Shut up," Nathan growled, averting his eyes as his cheeks grew a little flushed. He was going to have to explain himself, something on which his well-being should never, ever hinge. "I just... It was... It's cold, y'know, and uh... Uhhh... Y'know, doodily... I mean...what if we never, uh...y'know...do **that** again before we die?" He paused, pleased with his explanation, which made perfect sense to him. "That would be totally lame." Another pause. "I'm...having a hard time expressing myself."

"..._Yeeeeeeeeeah,_" Pickles said. He kept the eyebrow raised. "Bet not wit a guy...right? Dood. Jest...dood."

"I was just saying," Nathan growled, defensive but admonished. "Better than, y'know, not doing it at all. I guess." He was sorely tempted to call Pickles's out on his sudden 'attention' down below, but he didn't, instead merely squinting at him, mild, put-off accusation in his bright green eyes.

"_Yeeeeeah,_" Pickles said. _Wat__ tha hell. Dat's jest fuckin' weird... Dough... I wouldn't mind it. _He wasn't going to speak on his thoughts, especially embarrassing thoughts like that. There was no use in denying it, though, and that's what maddened him.

Nathan snarled low, possibly at himself, probably at Pickles, and slid his arm free of the drummer, rolling onto his side away from him with a huff of breath. _This__ whole thing was a terrible idea,_ Nathan thought, pulling the blanket tight over him. "Nevermind," he grunted, face hidden by his hair as he shut his eyes.

"Wait, wait... Ah, _Gahd..._ Nevermind. Watever." What was he about to say? He didn't want to know himself. He rolled away from Nathan and immediately missed the warmth. He felt empty now, and he hated it. He grumbled under his breath at himself. Gahd, he was stupid.

Nathan rolled his eyes and remained on his side of the blankets. Great, he thought, now Pickles was going to think he was a fag and probably tell everyone and tell all the groupies so Nathan would only get, uh, like a dozen a night instead of fifty. He didn't see the harm in his suggestion, really he had done stuff like that once or twice before, back in the showers after football practice, and it had never meant anything other than a helping hand to do what he'd be doing anyway. It was the implications of it from someone who didn't get it, Nathan thought morosely, as it appeared Pickles didn't.

"I mean, dood, I did shit like dat back in tha 80's...," Pickles said. He was huddled under his blanket with it pulled over his head. He felt like hiding, anyhow. It was rather embarrassing. He didn't think Nathan a fag at all. He respected the man too much to even consider the matter, but the fact was, he could use it right now, just like he could use a cigarette. He poked his head out from under the sheet and searched around for his cigarette pack, anything to calm his nerves. He found Nathan's lighter, instead. He grumbled to himself and sat up with his blankets pooling around him. _Great._ He needed a smoke or some booze. Why'd he drink so fucking fast?!

Nathan was still pissed -not even at Pickles- but maybe his reaction, or the whole situation, or something else entirely, but he grunted as he felt Pickles moving and patting around the ground, and stretched to grab the pack of cigarettes that had fallen to the floor. He slid them to Pickles and pulled the blanket tight again, trying to suppress surprise in his voice. "Really?"

"Yeah, really," Pickles said. "'N thanks." He pulled out a cigarette and lit it with a shaky hand. Gahd. He felt insanely old. He glanced between the lighter and Nathan and sighed. He'd never really talked to many people about the 80's.

With all the graceful thought processes of dynamite used for fishing, Nathan suddenly remembered that movie about the doctor that cut people's faces off and ate them. What was it he said? The thing... "this for that." A story for a story, right? Nathan didn't turn over, but he took up the pack of cigarettes and held his hand out for the lighter, still lying down. "Used to do things, uh, like that," he admitted, willing to dredge up his own past in the interest of hearing Pickles's story. "After practice, in the showers. Never, y'know, meant anything, but it felt good. Was different than being with a lady."

Pickles raised an eyebrow over at Nathan. He blinked a few times before dropping the lighter into Nathan's hand. "Yeah...," he said. It felt kind of strange knowing that they'd **both** experimented. He drew his knees to his chest and breathed out toward the ceiling. He wondered if the snowstorm were slowing down now. The howl was growing worse. He could feel the small shack ominously shaking. He stared up at the ceiling, holding the cigarette between two fingers.

He took the lighter, motionless but for that and the flick to light the cigarette, which he exhaled slowly from his supine position. Nathan earnestly wanted to hear more about Pickles back then, but he didn't want to push the older man if he was unwilling, instead simply muttering, "The 80's, huh" and ashing his cigarette onto the ice.

"Yeah...," Pickles said, "tha 80's... Fuckin' insane shit." He could recognize the crackling as Zombie Graveyard Rape Bonanza. "Dood... Fuckin' love dis song..."

Whether he ever said it or not (he didn't, and wouldn't) Nathan respected the hell out of Pickles, regardless of what he thought of his old band's music. He knew his music enough to know that most bands like that, from that time, burned out before they got anywhere, and the fact that that skinny shit had managed to make it with nothing more than a bus ticket and a guitar had always impressed Nathan immensely. Their age difference wasn't too great, but he knew that Pickles had seen more and done more than him, so he didn't push him to talk more about it, instead falling quiet, and feeling something like guilt that showed in the furrow of his brow.

"We didn't have female groupies half tha time," Pickles said. "So... Yeah. I dunno wat I'm getting' at. Yer right... Tha time was gay. Insanely fuckin' gay."

Nathan grinned suddenly, really, **really** fucking amused at Pickles's confession. He was so amused, in fact, that he snorted out a laugh, and took another drag as he rolled back over to face Pickles. The laughter eased, though, taking his sudden pissiness with it, and he murmured, "No ladies for groupies?"

"We had 'em, dun get me wrong... Douchebag." Pickles rolled his eyes. "Man, nevermind. Ferget it."

"No, no," Nathan insisted, exhaling a mouthful of smoke and jabbing Pickles in the side with his finger. "Keep talking. Makes me not think about the cold."

Pickles squeaked at the poke and glared at Nathan. He **hated** being ticklish. "Too bad. Think about tha cold," he grumbled.

"Come on," Nathan grumbled, prodding again and recalling something Murderface said (more than) once. "Don't be a dick, be a _dude,_ Pickles."

"**NO**, Nat'an," Pickles said. He squeaked again.

Nathan took a long, **very** long, drag, and stubbed the cigarette out as the smoke dripped upwards from his lips. His eyes glinted at the prospect of a challenge, brow lifting. "I want to hear, Pickles," he insisted, his grin turning a little brutal as he prodded the drummer once more.

"Well, too bad," Pickles said. "Yer not."

Nathan arched a brow, and with surprisingly fast reflexes, Nathan moved like a whipcrack and tackled Pickles gracelessly onto the ice. He caught his arms with his hands and straddled the drummer's stomach, his expression halfway between a grin and a snarl, lips pulled back over his teeth. He grunted out a laugh and pinned Pickles down, hair shadowing his face. "Tell me," he insisted, eyes glittering amusement.

"Wat tha hell!" Pickles glared up at Nathan. _Definitely__ a freggin' black panther. _"If I don't, den wat?"

"Then I'm going to do horrible, fuckin'..._brutal_ things to you," Nathan snarled, still grinning as he caught both of Pickles's wrists under one big hand, and stuck his free hand right into Pickles's side, tickling him roughly. He stopped after a few seconds and tossed his head, hair falling right back into his face as he snorted, eyes narrowed but expression still deeply amused. "And that's just a taste of it."

"Ticklin' ain't brutal!" Pickles snorted. "_Gahddamn_ it!"

"But it works, right?" Nathan growled, still grinning savagely down at the pinned drummer. He held his hand out, threatening more, and arched a brow, waiting for the story to continue.

"Okey, fine," Pickles said. "We had tha girls, but I never cared for 'em. Alright? Tha big poofy hair 'n shit... _Gahd._ Do you know how embarrassing dis is?!"

Nathan stopped to think for a moment, and admitted, "Uh, probably, uh... really embarrassing." A pause. "Keep talking," grinned Nathan, listening attentively despite their awkward positioning.

"Okey, douchefag...," Pickles grumbled. "I was datin' one of my band mates beck den." He was looking over to the side, trying not to meet Nathan's eyes. "'N... I swear, if I had anything, I'd kill you..."

Nathan blinked, eyes going a little wide. He didn't expect that, but with his attention distracted, he let up on Pickles's wrists a little. "Really?" grunted Nathan. "I mean, not the killing, I, uh, know you'd do that. But the, y'know, the other thing. Who?" he asked, a surprising lack of teasing in his voice.

"Eh, Sammy," Pickles said. "Our old drummer... I have a thing fer blondes."

"Wow," Nathan relented, sliding back off of Pickles with little mind to the inevitable retaliation that was coming. "I didn't, I mean... I didn't know that. Huh. What," he paused, scratching his head and squinting. "What happened with that?"

"Eh, I dunno, we jest broke things off," Pickles said. "I dun remember. It was too far beck."

Drawing his knees up to his chest and draping his arms over them, Nathan pushed his hair back out of his face and glanced sidelong at Pickles. "That sucks," he replied, and though his words were inelegant, the sentiment was genuine.

"Eh, not _really_," Pickles said.

He arched a brow, listening, and still watching the redhead next to him on the ground.

"If I dun remember it, it ain't all **dat** bad," Pickles said. "Feel no remorse fer nothin'. Dat's tha way I like it."

Nathan rubbed his nose, approving of the motto in his own silent way, and glanced toward the window of the shack. He let out a long sigh, then, settling from the burst of energy, and glad that maybe the whole incident earlier would probably be forgotten, definitely by him, anyway, since he had a crappy memory. He laid down next to Pickles again, though, and drew close to him, hands to himself, just for warmth, his hair skewed over his face. "Thanks," he murmured. "For telling me, I mean. S'interesting."

"You kinda forced me," Pickles said, "but watever. I dun mind."

"Well, yeah," he agreed with a shrug. "I like hearing about it, though. I mean, the music sucks, but... You did good, y'know? So it's, uh," he paused, repeating himself. "Interesting. Yeah."

"_Yeeeeeah_," Pickles said. "Yer point?"

Nathan frowned. "I was trying to give you a compliment, dick," he grumbled, but he didn't move, curled against Pickles.

"_Jeeeest_ makin' sure," Pickles said. He raised an eyebrow over at Nathan as he took another drag of his cigarette.

Nathan's eyes were closed, blanket pulled up around his neck, but he was still very much awake, listening to Pickles smoke and the wind yowl around the shack. Even Nathan, who attacked resistance by crashing into it repeatedly until it broke rather than finding another way around, had a point of exhaustion, and if Pickles was going to be so difficult, then Nathan was going to sleep. Or was going to try, anyway.

"Oh, fuck it," Pickles mumbled. He crushed his cigarette against the floor, lied on his side and faced Nathan, and pressed close to him, half for the other man's body heat and half for something he'd rather not admit. It was a silent thank-you to the other man.

Grunting in surprise, Nathan's eyes opened a little. It took him a minute to respond but Nathan accepted the drummer's presence as it was offered, wrapping an arm over him and pulling him tight, friends (kind of) and band mates and, Nathan noticed, really, _really_ warm.

"You'd better not tell 'nyone if we get outta dis, douche...," Pickles mumbled against Nathan's neck.

The drummer's hot breath against his neck sent a long, electric shiver through Nathan, and he let out a low growl of approval. "You too," he warned agreeably, fingers wrapping in a few of the scarlet dreadlocks.

"A'corse," Pickles mumbled.

Nathan rested his chin on the top of Pickles's head, keeping him close for warmth, and letting his eyes drift shut, surprisingly comfortable, despite the cold.

Pickles's eyes fluttered open and he glanced up at Nathan. "I'd take you up on yer offer, y'know...," he mumbled.

Nathan's brow arched, eyes opening slowly. "What off-" he stopped, flushing slightly. "Oh." Another pause, and then more emphatically, "_Oh._" His fingers stilled in the drummer's hair and he hesitated for only a moment before twisting down towards Pickles, and kissing him hard. _Remember,_ Nathan told himself, _we're__ going to die anyway,_ and the thought gave him appropriate abandon as their mouths met.

_Wat tha..._ Pickles's thought process fuzzed out as he heard a familiar tune from the radio. Amon Amarth's 'Death in Fire' was damn welcoming right now. He kissed Nathan back, tasting the booze from the other man's lips. He tried not to think nor feel. Just _be_.

Nathan's tongue parted Pickles's lips and drove in deep, and he slid a hand down to his backside, grabbing the drummer's leg and hiking it over his hip. The younger man couldn't help but imagine Pickles as he was back then, all teased hair and eyeliner, and his hips rolled forward at the thought, a soft groan escaping his breathless mouth.

Pickles gasped and suckled Nathan's tongue. His left hand wandered from his side to Nathan's hips, drawing him in closer. He growled and purred, his vision fading along with his thought process. The warmth was all that mattered now, anyhow.

Growling low in his throat, Nathan rocked his hips hard against Pickles, senses crumbling like burning church rafters as his tongue was caught in the drummer's mouth. He drew back to breathe, chest heaving, and he snarled back into the kiss, catching Pickles's lower lip between his teeth and tugging roughly. Heart pounding, Nathan pushed the drummer back and slid between his legs, grinding against him and shivering pleasurably at the friction, his hair draped over Pickles as he hovered above him. "Want you," he grunted, tugging at Pickles's shirt to try and pull it off over his head.

_Gahd...,_ Pickles thought. He lifted his arms in order to help Nathan, groaning at the contact. His eyes fluttered open and he practically purred, feeling pinned down by green fire. _Why__ didn't I jest agree earlier? Damn… _"Want you more," he mumbled.

Despite the cold, Nathan's own shirt followed a moment later, both tossed aside. The singer was like an animal, driven on pure instinct and single-syllable thoughts: heat, sex warmth. His broad hands slid up over Pickles's bare chest and he thrust against him again before leaning down and trailing his mouth along the smaller man's neck, biting and suckling at whatever pale skin he came in contact with.

_Fuuuck...,_ Pickles thought. He was panting, gasping to breathe and watched as ghostly swirls rose toward the ceiling. _Tha__ fuck... It can't be **dat** could in here, can it?_ he wondered. His back was freezing while he felt agonizingly hot everywhere else.

Nathan sat back on his knees, wrapping one strong arm around the other man's back and pulling him close, so Pickles was straddling him. He kissed the drummer's neck, biting hard between the heated press of his mouth, and rolled his hips up against him, growling.

Pickles's head was spinning. He moaned and mumbled softly, his voice unintelligible. Fucking...rush... He felt weak and maddeningly girly. He was **not** girly, despite how he was in the eighties.

His fingernails raked hard down Pickles's back and then clawed back up into his hair, snaring a handful of scarlet and pulling to expose his neck. Nathan thought about Pickles as he was then -all teased hair and make-up and those fucking **pants**- and he growled, biting Pickles's pale Irish skin hard along his collarbone. He rolled his hips up again, bucking desperately and relishing the sensation of friction between them.

Pickles almost whimpered. The sound was bubbling in his throat. He was caught between submissing completely and being stubborn. His hands scratched Nathan's stomach before moving behind to his hips, pushing them up, his dextral, thin fingers pressing into Nathan's lower back. He wanted the pressure; he wanted the tension gone...along with the rest of their fucking clothes.

The feel of nails over his belly made him tense and growl, like a dog whose belly was being pet. He rubbed into the smaller man harder, wanting to feel raw skin against raw skin, but loathing breaking contact for even long enough to take off their pants. Nathan's hand pulled hard on Pickles's hair, and he rumbled through clenched teeth against the drummer's ear, "Tell me what you want."

"I wan'...you ta stap playing 'round, gahddamn it...," Pickles mumbled. His heart was pounding in his chest, similar to the many beats he played. Impatience was evident in his eyes, and his mumble was more similar to a growl than a purr.

This earned Pickles a hard bite on his neck -a warning nip that would leave an angry red mark well into the next day- and another snarl. "Tell me what you want," he insisted, still rocking his hips hard up against Pickles.

_Sounds so cheesy...and clichй...like a porno 'bout two blonde chicks...who were both lost...and just-so-happened to be lesbians...and one is...ah, gahd_. Pickles purred, his thoughts wandering into his fantasy world. "You know wat I want, idiot...," he said.

The singer caught him by his throat, just underneath his jaw, and his lips curled back in a savage grin as he stared up at Pickles through his hair. His other hand yanked Pickles's fly undone, nearly tearing his pants, and he said, his voice low, "Say it."

"**Fuck**** me**, I wan' you ta fuck me," Pickles growled. What little fingernails he had dug into Nathan's lower back.

"Again," Nathan informed him, not a request or a question. It was an order and he pushed Pickles back onto the ice, tugging the drummer's jeans and underpants down over his hips, his heated breath pooling in the air like smoke.

_Tha hell..._ Pickles growled and deadpanned, speaking slowly, much like Nathan usually did, "I wan you ta fuck me." He was growing impatient and much colder than before. Nathan had him pinned, and the lake below him was...freezing, as expected. The blanket was little protection, and he tried his best not to shiver. The lesbian fantasy world he'd created was suddenly gone; replaced with something much more...real, agonizing, fervent... Gahd, why wouldn't he hurry up?!

The words were like whiskey to Nathan; the power they gave intoxicating, and he groaned against the drummer's throat, suckling hard at his pale skin. One hand was still underneath his jaw, keeping his head back and the drummer pinned, and the other slid down to unfasten his own pants. He shucked them quickly down off his hips and, biting down on Pickles's neck again, warmth replaced by sharp stinging pain, he ground his arousal against Pickles's, moaning loudly at the rough-smooth heat.

"Fuuuuck...," Pickles hissed. "Bite harder..." It wasn't a command, more like a suggestion, but not pleading. Pickles would **not** plead.

"You like being hurt?" rumbled Nathan. It was a loaded question, but one that he could find out the answer to himself. His broad hand came to rest on Pickles's cock and he grasped it, stroking once, hard, and biting down on his shoulder at the same time, sharp teeth tearing enough that he could taste the drummer's salt-thick blood on his tongue.

"Yes, damn it...," Pickles mumbled, his throat hitching.

Nathan lapped the warmth up ravenously, the raw taste singing primal through his veins, and he jerked Pickles off hard again, just once more. Lips stained scarlet, he pressed them close to his bandmate's ear and growled, "Beg for it."

"I **don't** beg," Pickles growled. Pride was a futile emotion... It wasted so much time. Pickles fought with himself, hating to be submissive, but wanting to just...let go. He drew his scraggly nails, which he bit down to the quick over half the time, over Nathan's back.

The warm hand wrapped around him immediately disappeared, leaving his arousal exposed to the cold, and Nathan pulled back his attention, tongue tracing his lips to catch the last bit of blood and sweat there. The sudden deprivation of warmth, of touch, of attention, was filled instead with cold, and he arched a brow, waiting.

Pickles's happyplace was suddenly gone. The lesbians were laughing at him inside his head, taunting his weakness. It was cold, cold, cold, mind-fuckingly **cold**, like the floor, only even more displeasing. "Douche...," he growled.

Nathan's own erection lay against his belly as he leaned back on his heels, not touching Pickles in any way. His eyes fell half-lidded as the traced his fingers up and down his length, and began to stroke slowly. "Beg for it," he said, a slight grin snaring one corner of his mouth.

Pickles growled and fought himself, wondering why the fuck Nathan wanted a powertrip **now** of all times. He should've expected that Nathan might like power, but...honestly, he'd never thought of the other man that way. Never really thought of anyone he **knew** that way. That's what was annoying him most; why he **wanted** it, why his mind was desperately **screaming** at him to just...give for once. A whimper was bubbling from his throat, and his eyes revealed his weakness. It was on the tip of his tongue, but he just... No way. Never. "No," he growled.

Nathan smirked, hair dark against his skin as it slid over his shoulders, his hand moving languidly over his cock as he looked from it to Pickles. "I'll make it easy on you," he grinned, eyes glittering. "All you have to say is 'please.'" His love of power, especially in compromised situations, being such a headrush for Nathan, he knew that there was never any need for lots of words. Small ones break people even harder than the long ones. He waited patiently, predatory eyes searching hungrily over Pickles's bare skin before raising to meet his eyes again.

_Like a... NO. I was **not** gonna ta make tha fucking cat-'n-mouse analogy..._ Pickles rolled his eyes out of habit. In his mind, he was decimating the lesbians with a chainsaw. "Haw 'bout **no**?" His legs were trembling despite his steady voice. "Yer ego's big enough already..." He kept Nathan's eyes.

Sometimes you had to give a little to get a lot, and Nathan wasn't above that. He knew exactly what he was doing -eyes locked on the drummer's- as he leaned down and slowly pressed his tongue against Pickles's exposed erection, and licked languidly to the top. The warmth was searing, but as Nathan drew back and continued to stroke himself slowly, the wetness began to cool on Pickles's length. Nathan smirked, brow lifting again as he waited.

"TEASE!" Pickles howled. He shuddered worse now and scratched repeatedly at Nathan's back, mentally cursing the pain. **"****PLEASE! PLEASE**** JEST FUCK ME!"** Okay. So, how hard was that?

Nathan nearly lost it just hearing the desperate cry, biting his lip hard to stop his body's immediate ecstatic reaction in its tracks. He let the feeling ease away, a shiver coursing through him, and groaned hard, giving Pickles another long lick -even wrapping his mouth around the top for a moment- before kissing Pickles hard and snaring one leg to wrap over his waist.

The returning heat felt oh-so welcome. He groaned and bit Nathan's lips, tasting a strange combination of salt, vodka, and metallic blood...or all alcohol, since it had been his own blood, after all. He writhed and burned. His fingertips massaged into Nathan's back, popping a few bones unintentionally, before going back to clawing their way up and down the frontman's back.

Far from being a romantic, Nathan broke the kiss to spit roughly into his hand. His tongue was forced back into Pickles's mouth a moment later -unsurprisingly as violent in his kisses as every other aspect in his life- and he slid two fingers hard into the drummer, gasping against his mouth at the sudden heat and pressure.

Pickles found his head swimming from relief once he felt two fingers squirm inside him. For a split second, he'd been worried that Nathan would let loose all logic and fuck him un-prepped. Either way, if they lived past ton...wait. He didn't know what time of the day it was... If they lived past whatever time it was, he would be limping, finger-fucked or not. He drank Nathan once again, tasting more blood than vodka than last time. It was a dull kind of taste that slightly affected his highly-alcohol-tolerant system.

He shuddered, fingers moving faster, deeper, stretching as the drummer suckled at his mouth, still blooming scarlet from the teeth marks left in them. The pressure of feeling traces of blood drawn from his lips pulled a hard moan from the singer and kissed Pickles again, harder than before. It couldn't wait any longer or it would be over too soon, Nathan decided, spitting again to slick up his own length, hair clinging to his sweat-sticky skin despite the frigid cold.

Pickles was now enduring the Great Wait, AKA, a clichй that he wouldn't deal with because his life was not some fucking fanfic. True, he grew a little anxious, but he didn't do a complete personality-swap. He watched, aching for the warmth, and tried to stop his wandering thoughts, which seemed to control his actions over half the time. It was worse than the crash you got from energy drinks...which Pickles loathed with a passion, by the way. He could picture Nathan's actions in his head as the frontman adjusted him. He wrapped his legs around Nathan's hips and closed his eyes, trying to be as calm as he could be and not tense.

As desperate for it as Pickles was, Nathan couldn't have made him wait if he'd wanted to, and he pressed in hard, gasping sharply as the sudden warmth and tightness made sparks burn behind his eyes, squeezed shut. He slid one hand to Pickles's backside to lift his hips higher, finally releasing the breath he was holding, chest rising and falling rapidly.

Pickles had been breathing through his nose, but gasped sharply again. His eyes fluttered before closing again. _Calm, calm, don't__ tense up...,_ he instructed himself. There was a reason to why he drank so much: to dull his thought process. He was always his mental coach. He was drumming along automatically to the song that was currently playing, not out of choice, but out of habit. _Gotta__ admit... Where tha fuck **are** we? Gotta be sumwhere in Europe, cuz America ain't got no good stations..._ He pressed his hips higher and gazed blankly upward; the proverbial calm before the storm. _Gahd, shoot__ me._

Nathan swallowed hard, trying to catch his breath as the incredible tightness -the **heat**- stole it away. He watched Pickles, eyelids heavy with raw animal lust, and he drove the rest of the way in with one hard motion, snarling loudly as the drummer's tightness seemed to swallow him whole. He wasn't thinking anything, his head filled with nothing but the hot rush of blood and adrenaline spurring him into another hard thrust, and his mouth was suddenly dry, so he kissed Pickles roughly, all animal drive bordering on violence.

Pickles's gasps were muffled, and a borderline scream bubbled from him. It was gone, just like that. All sense of reality was out of the window. The radio's crackling was a strange background mixed with muffled grunts and strangled moans. He didn't bother to fight it; all the fight had left him once Nathan had pinned him down. It was sickeningly hot and cold at the same time, although he barely felt the cold anymore. Sweat and blood mingled his senses. Bitten-nails had already pulled up flesh and were still working away, slowly dissecting Nathan.

The tearing of his skin drove Nathan deeper, harder, and he tore into Pickles's neck, shoulder, collarbone with his teeth, lips working against his skin, searing heat like magma everywhere he touched. He pistoned like a machine, just as unforgiving. The drummer's writhing drove him even wilder, and the sounds coming from Nathan's throat could only be described as feral as he dug his fingernails into Pickles's sides and gouged hard down along his ribs, tearing him apart in every way he could manage.

_Ooooh, Gahd...,_ Pickles thought, probably the only intelligible thing he'd be able to think. _Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, I'm__ gonna die..._ Funny... He hadn't imagined death to be so pleasurable... Never imagined it at all really. He didn't recognize his own screams or any sort of noise other than Nathan. One hand was tapping the beat to the song currently crackling (he was unaware, as usual), and the other was digging in deeper by the minute. Pickles could faintly feel his fingernails sticky from blood, but that was it; the rest was focused on his...sort of friend barbarically fucking him.

There wasn't a nerve in Nathan's body that wasn't ripped raw and open and exposed to the frozen northern air. The side of the singer so rarely tapped -the side of him that wanted nothing more than to live in the snowy woods and hunt with his bare hands and build his own shelter and **fuck just like this**- was now in control, and he all but roared as he drove as deep as possible into Pickles over and over again. His fingernails tore through the drummer's pale skin and the metallic bloom of blood filled his nostrils. Grabbing Pickles's ass with one hand, he squeezed hard and kept him close, thrusts growing erratic. "Fuck," he growled, eyes squeezed shut in primal ecstasy. "Say it again."

Pickles's mind had already fuzzed out by this time, but he quickly figured out what Nathan had wanted. That one little word? "Please, please, please, please, Gahd, oh fuckin' i please /i ," Pickles mumbled, his words stringing together into a single breath.

With a shout that threatened to shake the shack down around them, Nathan pistoned harder, teeth clenched as he suddenly reached down and started stroking Pickles hard, fast, in time with his own thrusts. The bucking of his hips began to grow erratic and his vision began to swim as he felt himself drawing closer to release, breath dry and fast as it panted in bursts of grey into the icy air.

Grey whitish tar. The flashlight had died a while ago; he barely recognized the wisps flowing from his parted lips as his gasping. Rhythm forgotten, he seemed to smile, a psychotic kind of grin that was tranquil, yet definitely borderline. He hit bone at some point, unexpectingly digging at the same sporadic rhythm.

Feeling his skin, his muscles, his blood and flesh and heat and everything part beneath Pickles's fingers was enough, and Nathan drove as deeply as possible as release washed over him. He came in scalding white ropes deep inside his bandmate, choking, gasping, squeezing Pickles's length even harder in his hand as fresh pinpricks of sweat drew along his brow. His entire body -every muscle- went tight, a few involuntary bucks pressing him in just a few millimeters deeper that made all the difference as he came.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck..._ Pickles's hands fell to either side, losing his senses as Nathan squeezed him. His hips were jerking, spazzing in release, fluid spilling upon Nathan, but mostly his own stomach. When he finally went still, a listless expression washed over his face.

The singer remained buried deep inside his bandmate as long moments passed, no sound in the room but the static of the radio and their own heavy breathing. Letting out a low groan, he finally moved, fingers slicking through the thick liquid on Pickles's stomach and bringing his hand to his face. Still feral, Nathan's nostrils flared as he scented it, and then wrapped his tongue around his fingers, pulling it into his mouth and savoring the raw taste of it, skin still flushed hot searing in the cold.

Since Pickles couldn't see, he could only guess what Nathan was doing. _He's__ like a dog...a really... Gahd..._ He was glad that the flashlight had flickered out. He didn't want to know what Nathan looked like then. "Gahd..."

Nathan was triumphant, grinning savagely in the darkness before rolling onto the blanket next to Pickles. It faded in a moment however as the adrenaline rush began to fade and the cold began to set in, fingers working to tug his pants back up over his hips. "Was good," he grunted, the alpha male satiated. He was ready to retire, muscles relaxed and body calm despite the blood still dripping from the wounds Pickles had inflicted on his back.

"Yeah...," Pickles mumbled. He lifted his hips in order to pull his pants back up and shakily zip them up. He sat up and winced. Okay. Fuck it. He wasn't going to be sitting down for a while. His left hand was fumbling in the darkness, fingers searching for nicotine death. _Man, I'd__ hate ta be blind..._ He found a cigarette pack before and slipped a cylinder into his mouth before crawling around in the small shack back to the covers. "You better still have dat lighter..."

"Give me one," Nathan said, offering the lighter in exchange for a smoke, and then lighting it once the lighter was returned to him. The glow illuminated his face, hair still sticking to his skin, cheeks still flushed, and he stared up at the blackness as he laid back, feeling the cuts on his back start to stick to the blanket beneath him.

"Meebe I should try tha radio now...," Pickles mumbled. He glanced over at Nathan as he waved around his lit cigarette in the darkness.

The animal brutality having been pacified, Nathan huffed a low laugh, breath and smoke mingling and twisting upwards as he exhaled. He arched a brow at the drummer, squinting at him. If he _had_ somehow engineered this all on purpose... Nathan didn't finish the thought. Thinking was stressful, and he wanted to just relax, pulse returning to normal. "Worth a shot," he muttered, amused, one brow lifting.

Pickles was snickering. He was using the lit cigarette in place of the flashlight. He'd been lying on his stomach for obvious reasons, so he merely had to reach up for the radio. He fumbled and came across what he'd noticed some time ago; headphones and what he felt as a...microphone thing. He sat up on his knees, minding not to bend down too much, and slipped the headphones over his ears. He began messing with the dial in what would otherwise be pure darkness, and warbled into the receiver, "Oi. 'Nyone out dere? Dis is Dethklok, stranded in tha middle'a nowhere!" He was glad that Nathan wouldn't be able to see his smug grin.


End file.
